


Cut My Throat

by Delphi



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Drama, First Time, M/M, Shaving, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with trust is that it's a two-way street, and Freddy has a lead foot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut My Throat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the resdog-kink community on LJ. Prompt: "Orange/White, shaving kink - White suggests a trust-building exercise, and he hands Orange a straight razor."

"I need a shave," White says. He's got one hand on the steering wheel and the other on his chin. "Maybe a fresh shirt. You mind if we swing by my place?"  
  
There's a sandpaper rasp of palm on stubble. Freddy looks out the passenger side window with studied nonchalance. He's got less than a second to unwrap the words. Was there something too careful in the way White said it? Is it some kind of test? Maybe White has him pegged for a nosy bastard who'll jump at the chance to find out where he lives. Maybe White's worried he's the kind of asshole who can't roll with it when someone promises him a burger and then drags him on a detour.  
  
Maybe White just needs a shave.  
  
"Whatever," Freddy says, still looking out the window. He stomps down the urge to glance over and see how his answer's gone down.  
  
Be cool, he thinks. Don't sweat it. It was just a question.  
  
Street signs and storefronts fall onto the map in his head. The sun's in his eyes, making him squint. He worries he looks too interested in where they're going, so he screws with the radio dial. A traffic report blips by, followed by a commercial for an auto body shop, and then the bridge of "Paradise City."  
  
White smacks the back of his hand.  
  
"Hey!" It's not like it hurt, but still.  
  
White shoots him a hard-ass look that's obviously a put-on. "My car, my music. Put it back."  
  
Freddy can't help but laugh. He dials back to the oldies station, where some falsetto doo-wop group is crooning about tears on their pillows.  
  
There's a weird sense of deja vu as they turn down more familiar streets. They're maybe four blocks away from Freddy's apartment now, just around the corner from his bank and his laundromat and his favorite comic book shop. It fucks with his head to think that he and White could have bumped shoulders in the crowd outside a bar, or browsed over the same frozen dinners at the grocery store. The idea doesn't sit right, like they somehow would have recognized each other. Bang, boom, sparks fly—aren't you the guy who's going to put me away?  
  
So maybe it's a relief when they pull up to one of those by-the-week rentals for traveling salesmen and the kind of actors you sort of recognize but not really. It's not the Four Seasons, but it's not a shithole either. Concrete, two stories. There's a pool that Freddy probably wouldn't swim in, but there's nothing floating in it.  
  
"Home, sweet home," White says as he guides Freddy through a dark, air-conditioned hallway with a hand between his shoulders. He unlocks the door to Room 6 and ushers Freddy inside. "Make yourself comfortable. You want a drink?"  
  
The apartment's a small, bland bachelor. It doesn't feel particularly lived-in, but there's no luggage sitting out. Beige carpet, beige linoleum, beige walls. Freddy tries not to look too interested, and then tries not to look too uninterested. He flops down on the tan-colored couch and smiles up at White. "Nah, I'm good."

White drops his keys on the coffee table and smiles back at him. His wallet, which might be worth looking through, remains in his back pocket. Which means Freddy's kind of staring at White's ass as he walks into the bathroom. The door's left open, leaving Freddy with a prime view as White strips off his polo shirt.  
  
Freddy looks away. Then he glances back, getting an eyeful of broad shoulders and a tight undershirt. He lets the image sink in, just in case he wants to jerk off to it later.  
  
He twists the evidence locker wedding band around his finger. It was Holdaway's idea. Backstory. Subliminal reassurance that Tommy Wright isn't just a name on a fake ID. He's regretting it now, suspecting that if anything's going to make him fuck up, it's this, because White's definitely not buying it. The guy keeps pointing out hot girls to him and laughing when Freddy busts out his usual squad room bullshit, but here they are, getting dinner together for the third night in a row, and not one question about whether there's a pot roast getting cold somewhere.  
  
And maybe that's just how it is with these guys. He's known his share of old school dogs who go from business to the bar to the bedroom of the apartment their wives don't know about. Some of them are crooks, and some of them are cops. But he can't shake the feeling that White doesn't play that game. Like if he had a wife, he'd be real good to her. Like he wouldn't have taken a shine to Freddy—Tommy—Mr. Orange—if he thought he was a slimeball.  
  
So maybe White's screwing with him.  
  
He listens to the sound of the sink filling up with water. There's no getting away with a thorough search, not in a place this small. Nothing useful lying out in plain sight: no mail, no pictures, not even any crumpled-up receipts. Just a copy of yesterday's _Times_ , which Freddy sorts through until he finds the funny pages.  
  
An aerosol squirt of shaving cream. Freddy's gaze slides over.  
  
He can see White's face in the mirror and watches as he neatly daubs on the shaving cream. White rinses his hands, shuts off the faucet, and then unfolds an honest-to-God straight razor.  
  
Goddamn, that's badass.  
  
Freddy's stomach tenses up, and he looks back at the funny pages. The urge to fill the silence gnaws at him. He considers asking White if he thinks Hobbes is really just a stuffed tiger. Then he considers asking White if anyone has ever told him he sort of looks like Baretta. They're both stupid questions, but one is stupider than the other. Freddy kind of had a serious crush on Baretta when he was a teenager, around the time he was still figuring out whether he wanted to be a tough guy or elope with one.  
  
He reads a couple of comic strips without really getting the jokes. Then he carefully looks over the top of the paper again. White catches his gaze in the mirror and holds his stare for a long moment as he draws the razor blade along his cheek.  
  
Freddy looks away. He shakes out the paper and peers at the word jumble. He can hear the swish of a razor through water. He slowly looks up again.  
  
White's still watching him in the mirror. The razor glides along his jaw in a long, smooth line. Freddy can hardly even blink.  
  
"You're driving me crazy here, kid."  
  
White says it real quiet, but it rattles him anyway. He stares stupidly, having no fucking idea what that's supposed to mean. Then White smiles. It's not at full wattage, but maybe that's just the mirror. Freddy lets out a breath and looks away.  
  
Right. Don't gawk at the guy who's handling something sharp. That's all he meant.  
  
"Sorry, man," Freddy says. He shrugs, then shrugs again like it'll lift off the weird vibe that's suddenly hanging in the air.

A moment passes with no sound except the rustle of newsprint and the soft scrape of blade through stubble.  
  
Then White says: "You old enough to shave yet?"  
  
His tone is light, and Freddy rolls his eyes good-naturedly. His cover is only two years younger than him. "I'm older than I look."  
  
"Yeah, you are." White winks at him in the mirror and dips the razor into the sink. "Your old man teach you to shave?"  
  
Freddy sets down the newspaper and does something halfway between shaking his head and pulling a face. "Nah. He died when I was a kid."  
  
He and his cover have that much in common, but he's decided that Tommy Wright was a little less bothered by it. Except for the whole life of crime thing. He waits for the usual line: how'd it happen, how old were you, he must have been young. People always ask.  
  
But White just says: "That's rough."  
  
Matter-of-fact, but like he means it.  
  
"Anyway," Freddy says, "it's not like it's hard to figure out which end of the Bic goes on your face."  
  
White chuckles. The warm sound of it makes Freddy unwind a little. "You ever use one of these?"  
  
Freddy's eyes linger on the glint of steel. He shakes his head, watching as White takes care of his chin and upper lip in six precise strokes.  
  
The razor dips into the sink again.  
  
"C'mere," White says.  
  
The hell of it is, Freddy's legs are ready to obey before his brain puts on the brakes. "Why?"  
  
White looks over his shoulder at him. There's that put-on hard-ass look again. "Because I'm asking you to come here."  
  
He knows all about entering a confined space with a perp who's got a weapon, but the rules aren't the rules undercover. Do what you have to do. He gets to his feet and slouches lazily to the bathroom. It's not as small as the one in Freddy's apartment, but it's not big enough to comfortably fit two men. They're crowded together in front of the vanity, nearly touching. He breathes in the smell of an unfamiliar brand of shaving cream. His gaze flicks first to the razor and then to White's chest. Fuck, he's built for an older guy.  
  
The razor turns, catching the light. The handle's held out to Freddy.  
  
"How about you give it a try?"  
  
Freddy doesn't catch on until White tilts his chin up a little, offering. This time, there's no doubt. It's a test. True or false. Pass or fail. Except Freddy isn't sure what the question is.  
  
He takes the razor. It's heavier than he expected. The handle's solid wood, and the blade isn't any dinky box-cutter. He can feel the lingering heat from White's grip.  
  
"How do you know I'm not going to cut your throat or something?"  
  
White just laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle. "You're not that fast, buddy boy."  
  
Maybe, maybe not. Freddy's seen a guy stab another guy to death with a ballpoint pen.  
  
"Besides," White say, "you're gonna be watching my back with a piece. You think I don't got a read on you?"  
  
Freddy's stomach does a pancake flip. "I meant, like, by accident."  
  
White's smile is still hanging around, and he shrugs like it's no big thing. "You'll be careful."

Freddy adjusts his grip on the razor. He runs his thumb cautiously over the edge of the blade, testing it. His head tilts as he tries to work out the right angle. Finally, he hoists himself up to sit on the vanity.  
  
His toes twitch in his sneakers as White steps closer and puts his hands on the counter. One curls around the edge of the sink. The other settles square between Freddy's knees.  
  
The air goes out of the room. Freddy has to kick-start his chest to draw breath. Be cool, he thinks. Just be cool.  
  
There's not enough room between them to brace an elbow on his knee. So he has to balance himself with a hand on White's shoulder. Warm cotton. Hot skin. White holds steady as a rock.  
  
Freddy bites his lip, then leans in and places the edge of the blade against White's throat. It makes a sharp line in the lather. He draws the blade up. White breathes out softly.  
  
All of a sudden, he does remember being little—four, maybe five—and watching his dad shave in the bathroom of their old apartment. He remembers only being about as tall as the pedestal sink, craning his neck up to watch. He remembers thinking the shaving lather looked like whipped cream. He was probably stupid enough to try it when no one was looking.  
  
The razor stops just under White's jawbone. Then he draws a careful stripe down White's cheek, closing the line. His gaze steals up. White's eyes are closed, and he's breathing slow and heavy. Freddy's mouth runs dry.  
  
Fuck. He's getting a hard-on.  
  
He thinks cold thoughts as he rinses the blade. Broken noses. Severed fingers. It doesn't help. All he can feel is the places where bare skin's touching bare skin. He clears another line along White's throat, and then another. Two downward strokes along White's cheek. A long sweep across his jaw. His hand tightens around White's shoulder as he maneuvers the blade over the tricky Adam's apple curve.  
  
That's when White opens his eyes. Warm and dark. Heavy eyelids.  
  
Freddy was real slow to get the memo as a kid on what straight guys do and don't do with their buddies, but a couple beat-downs in middle school mostly sorted him out. This definitely goes in that box of things that two straight guys wouldn't be doing. Not even if one of them was trying to see if the other one's a pussy.  
  
White's looking at him like...  
  
Like he doesn't even know what.  
  
There's one last dab of shaving cream left under White's right ear. Freddy wipes it away with his thumb. They're just staring at each other. Freddy, desperately searching for some sort of clue. White, solid as anything. Like he's going to stand there forever until Freddy either fucks off or does something stupid.  
  
So Freddy goes with it. He closes his eyes and leans in.  
  
This is what he's supposed to be doing, isn't it? His orders are to cozy up to these guys. Be whatever they want him to be. This is their plan, their crime, and he's not allowed to give them any ideas, but he's not allowed to stop them either. Whatever it takes—that's the watchword of the day—and Tommy Wright, Mr. Orange, is just as turned on as Freddy Newandyke, with no good reason to say no.  
  
His mouth touches White's, and that's about the point where he loses all control of the situation.

Everything goes fast and blind. White grabs him hard—around his back, around his thigh. The razor falls from his grasp, landing with a distant-sounding splash in the sink. Freddy's arms wind tight around White's shoulders as their lips smash together. Teeth. White's tongue in his mouth, burning hot.  
  
Freddy's open for it. Mouth open. Legs open. He yanks White between his thighs and locks his knees around him. Stars. Blue lightning stars flashing behind his eyelids as his dick grinds against White's stomach through too much denim. Both of White's hands are on his ass, squeezing. Heavy breathing. Slick sounds. A rough, low noise in White's throat  
  
He fights it when White tries to pull back. He can't stop, even if he rubs his dick raw against his fly—even if he comes in his pants like a teenager. If he has a chance to catch his breath, he's going to have to think.  
  
"Shh," White says, breath cool on Freddy's wet lips. "I ain't going anywhere."  
  
It's only inches. White's eyes are bright, and his mouth is kissed to hell. He fishes the razor out of the sink and wipes it dry on his jeans before folding it up and setting it aside. His other hand inches up from Freddy's ass, teasing under Freddy's t-shirt, rubbing along the waistband of his jeans.  
  
Freddy gets his breath back. He can't be doing this, can he? It is such a bad fucking idea.  
  
White cups his cheek. Their foreheads touch. Freddy shivers, staring back drunkenly into White's unwavering gaze. He shouldn't. His thumb brushes back and forth over White's bare shoulder.  
  
"How about you go get on the bed and take your clothes off, huh?" White murmurs.  
  
It sounds like the best idea in the world, the way White says it. Like someone throwing him a life preserver in the middle of the ocean and suggesting that maybe he'd like to grab on. He licks his lips. He is so fucked if he does this.  
  
"Yeah," he mutters. "Okay."  
  
He's all messed up when White steps back. His legs are unsteady when his feet hit the floor. He runs a hand through his hair and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
White's leaning in the doorway of the bathroom, watching him as he backs up to the bed. It's only a few steps in a little place like this, but that's enough for Freddy to get the full view too. The tension in White's shoulders. The bulge in his jeans. The careful look in his eyes.  
  
Freddy sits down at the edge of the bed and pulls off his t-shirt. He can almost feel the weight of White's stare as it climbs all over him, lingering on his nipples and then the tattoo wrapped around his right arm. White's hand inches down, rubbing over the front of his jeans. He shakes his head, like he can't believe they're doing this either.  
  
"Come here," Freddy says.  
  
White nods. Smiles. "Yeah," he says. "One second."  
  
Then he's in motion, crossing the apartment and pulling the curtains all the way shut and making sure the door's locked. He turns on the radio that's sitting on top of the mini-fridge, and Ben Cooke or Otis Redding or one of those guys comes on, mid-croon.  
  
Freddy lies back on the cheap comforter and unbuckles his belt. He kicks his shoes and socks off and works his jeans down in a hurried wiggle. He strokes himself, first over his boxers and then under. His eyelids dip. Jerking off feels good, but it's not nearly enough.  
  
The mattress sags. White's kneeling beside him, stripping off his undershirt.  
  
"Yeah," Freddy mutters, pulling him down on top of him.

White's heavy. Not any taller than him, but a solid guy. Freddy can hardly breathe, but it's a good feeling. He's used to club bathrooms. Dark corners. Fast handjobs and blowjobs on the nights when porn isn't cutting it and he's horny enough to go into West Hollywood. Not slow, hard kissing and fingers combing through his hair. His hand slides down White's back, over his ass, pulling him in hard and grinding against him.  
  
Freddy's making sounds like crazy, little _mm_ s and _ah_ s that he just can't keep back, and cut-off _fuck_ s that get quashed against White's mouth. The radio was a good idea. Bob Dylan's mumbling has to be covering the worst of it. Freddy hasn't made out like this since he was in high school, all groping hands and endless kissing and hooking a thumb in a belt loop and tugging in a silent _please_.  
  
It works. White eases off just a little and unbuttons his jeans. Freddy is on this, his hand in White's briefs before the zipper's even down.  
  
"Not bad," he says breathlessly. The bulge didn't oversell.  
  
White chuckles, his lips on Freddy's neck. Soft, open-mouthed kisses as Freddy strokes him. Don't leave any marks, he wants to say, but White's a professional. It's all lips until he's down past the collar bones. Then he's fucking going to town on Freddy's nipples. Licking. Biting. Sucking on them like candy.  
  
"Oh shit," Freddy moans, head rolling back.  
  
It's good, real good—chewing his lip and arching up good. Then White's easing down Freddy's boxers, and dropping kisses along Freddy's stomach, and it all gets even better.  
  
"Jesus..."  
  
His stomach trembles. White's lips slide down his dick.  
  
His brain goes stupid, and for a moment he wonders if "gives great head" is the kind of identifying information he should be passing on to Holdaway. It's...fuck, White knows how to suck dick. His hands are rough, but his mouth is smooth and slow. Dirty slow, like he's _tasting_ him.  
  
Freddy doesn't have a chance. He can tell himself to think cool thoughts all he likes—can silently name every single Avenger, past and present, in a bid to keep from shooting his load in five seconds flat—but the fact of the matter is this guy is sucking him off like it's going out of style, his eyes shut and his eyebrows up, like Freddy's dick is all he can think about.  
  
"Fuck, man..."  
  
Freddy's arms curl above his head as his body pushes up, just about begging. His hips want to move, but White's holding them down. His eyes squeeze shut and his mouth is hanging open, and he can feel the heat roll through him—that kind of black-out orgasm that makes his hands and feet go numb.  
  
His fist bangs down on the bed as he comes. "Holy fucking Jesus!"  
  
White's laughing around his dick. _Laughing_. Swallowing. Pulling off with his eyes all bright and his mouth...his mouth...  
  
"You're a noisy motherfucker," White says. He's still laughing, but it's not a mean laugh. Freddy knows the difference.  
  
"Sorry," Freddy says, and then he's laughing too. It sounds kind of hysterical, but he's not feeling messed up. He's feeling good. He's feeling so good. He runs his hand over his face. "I don't even know your _name_."  
  
He's not fishing. He's not that goddamned smart. It's just funny, that's all. He doesn't even know why, because he hasn't gotten the name of half the guys he's screwed around with since leaving the academy. But for God's sake—Mr. White. Mr. Orange. It's ridiculous.  
  
White looks at him seriously. Then he offers his hand. "It's Larry. Good to meet you."  
  
The smile dries up on Freddy's face. Larry from Milwaukee. Fuck, is it really that easy? He hesitates, then takes the offered hand. _Tommy_ , he's about to say, but White moves over him and shuts him up with a rough kiss.  
  
"Keep it under your hat until after the job," White says. "I'm allowed to piss off Joe. You're not."  
  
Until after the job. That's weeks away. Years. Forever. His hand moves down White's stomach.

White rolls over onto his back, jeans and briefs down. Eyes half shut and dick half hard. He's not pushy—not that Freddy minds a little push—but his fingers tangle in Freddy's hair. Feels good. Freddy's loose all over as he gets White's dick in his mouth. It's a nice stretch. Thick. Makes him wonder what it would feel like sliding nice and slow into his ass.  
  
A fingertip traces his left ear, and then White's cupping his jaw. Holding him gentle. Pushing into his mouth. Fucking his mouth. Freddy moans. Can't even shut up with White's dick for a gag. He's drooling for it, trying to show off in what little space his tongue's got to work with. His gaze darts up.  
  
"Yeah, that's it..." White's hand tightens in his hair.  
  
He's no noisy motherfucker. It's all in his muscles tightening. A whispered _fuck_. His hips pushing up more insistently, and then two hard breaths out as he comes in Freddy's mouth.  
  
Freddy's usually a spitter, but the salty, slippery mess is already sliding down his tongue. He swallows it down. White squeezes the back of his neck. Breathes out hard again. Then gives him a clumsy pat.  
  
The next thing Freddy has in his mouth is one of White's Chesterfields. White lights it for him, and they both sit back against the headboard, smoking in silence. Freddy steals a few sideways glances at him. Yeah, he does kind of look like a Larry.  
  
"You still want that burger?" White asks.  
  
 _I should probably get going_ is the right answer. _Got a little business to take care of_. But Freddy's stomach answers for him, grumbling loudly. He hasn't eaten since breakfast, and sex always makes him hungry.  
  
White taps his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and laughs. "How about I order in?"  
  
"Can I get a milkshake or something?" Freddy asks. Might as well. His mouth tastes like come.  
  
White gives him a look like he's finding him fucking adorable. "Anything you want."  
  
He lies back and finishes his smoke as White pulls his clothes on and heads for the phone mounted on the kitchen wall. White knows a take-out number off the top of his head. He might be from Milwaukee and driving a borrowed set of wheels, but he's obviously not new to L.A. Figures. He and Cabot seem like they go way back.  
  
Freddy gets dressed and heads over to the couch. He picks up the remote control as White's giving the address. Please and thank you. White's a polite guy when he's not sticking people up. He flips through a few channels, then brightens when he hears some familiar screaming.  
  
"Oh man, I love this movie."  
  
White hangs up and comes to sit beside him. "What's this?"  
  
" _Jaws_ ," Freddy says as Chrissie Watkins' body washes up on the beach. "Just started."  
  
"What's the story?" White's arm slings casually across the back of the couch, almost around Freddy but not really.  
  
"It's _Jaws_ ," Freddy says blankly.  
  
"Never seen it."  
  
Freddy almost asks who the hell hasn't seen _Jaws_. Then he remembers who he's talking to. For all he knows, White spent half of the '70s beyond bars.  
  
"It's about a shark. There's this town, and this shark starts killing people, which is bad for the tourists, so they've got to kill the shark. Man versus nature."  
  
"Fuck tourists," White says. His fingers brush Freddy's shoulder. "The shark was there first."  
  
"Kept me out of the water," Freddy concedes. "Scared the shit out of me when I was a kid. I wouldn't even go into the neighbors' pool."

There's a knock at the door about fifteen minutes in, and Freddy reaches for his wallet, but White waves him off. Freddy's attention leaves the TV. He watches as White cracks open the drawer on the little hallway table before peering through the peephole. Then White's shoulders ease, and he opens the door to reveal a skinny kid holding a couple of paper bags. Freddy catches a glimpse of a driver's license and a wad of cash as White opens his wallet and pays the kid.  
  
The burger's good. So is the milkshake. Freddy hollows his cheeks as he sucks the straw, and White elbows him in the ribs. He's playing with fire, he knows it. But it's hard to really appreciate it when it feels so easy. The movie plays on, stupid and familiar. He eats his burger and fries, and he steals a couple of White's onion rings. During the commercials, White talks about the great white he saw in Baja. About swordfishing in Florida and catfishing in Louisiana. The guy has lived.  
  
 _He wants to take me fishing_ , he imagines telling Holdaway. That's the way to go. Because he knows exactly what Holdaway will say.  
  
 _Is he a faggot? He want to be your daddy?_  
  
Freddy will shrug. An embarrassed, what-can-you-do kind of shrug. _Maybe._  
  
 _I don't care if he wants you to sit in his lap and bounce_ , the Holdaway in his head says. _You do whatever gets this motherfucker talking._  
  
That's his ass at least halfway covered if any of this gets out. But it won't. White's not going to go flapping his mouth about fucking one of his supposed co-conspirators. If there's one thing worse than being queer in the LAPD, it's being queer in prison.  
  
It's a little cold, the thought of locking White up.  
  
He crosses his arms over his chest. Slouches down a little. Don't do the crime if you can't do the time. It's not going to be that bad. White's a smart guy, and he knows the man in charge. Freddy will put in a good word for him, and White will spill on Cabot, and he'll get five years at most. Maybe three years with good behavior. Maybe one. The prison system's fucked up.  
  
"You okay?" White asks.  
  
The credits are rolling, and Freddy's been staring at the coffee table for at least a minute.  
  
"Yeah. Fine. Just thinking."  
  
"Don't sprain anything." White pulls a little at his shoulder.  
  
"Asshole," Freddy says.  
  
Maybe he's doing White a favor. Maybe after he does his time, he'll go straight. Move down to the Florida Keys and get a boat or something. Take tourists fishing. Feed them to sharks.  
  
"I mean it," White says. His voice is kind of gruff, but it's probaby just heartburn. "Don't be so fucking tense all the time. It's contagious."  
  
White pulls at his shoulder again, and this time Freddy goes with it. He lets White ease him down and ends up on his back, head pillowed in White's lap.  
  
It's weird. But kind of good. He's had a headache he can't shake ever since starting this gig, and lying down makes the pressure ease. White's hand settles on his stomach. Again? Freddy's dick makes it clear it's on board with that. Freddy himself isn't sure where this is going, but he spreads his legs for it, putting one foot on the floor. Playing along.

White turns off the TV. The sun's gone down. The room is dark except for a bit of light radiating from the bathroom. Freddy sighs as White's hand moves lower. The guy must have gotten his start picking pockets or shoplifting or something, because he's got Freddy's jeans unbuttoned and unzipped in one stealthy movement.  
  
Yeah, that's nice. White's fingers trace his dick and balls through his boxers. Freddy gets hard faster than he should considering he just got off a couple of hours ago. His days of multiple jerk-off sessions are a few years behind him. Not tonight, though. White's got the magic touch.  
  
He looks down, licking his lips as White draws his dick out through the slit in his boxers. Shadowy panther. White's hand wrapped around him, stroking slowly. He closes his eyes. White lets him go for a second. The sound of spitting. Then his hand's back, wet.  
  
"Fuck, man..." Freddy breathes, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
He has to be quiet. Doesn't need anyone banging on the wall or knocking on the door. White's hand moves slick and slow. Unhurried, like one of those late-night insomnia jerk-offs. Too slow. Freddy plants his foot and rocks up into it, his hand edging under his t-shirt. Way too slow. White's driving him crazy here. His fingers dig into his bare stomach.  
  
"Pull it up," White says.  
  
He's tugging up the hem of his t-shirt before he even really thinks about it. Can't think, not with White's hand slowly twisting. He wonders if this is how White jerks off. Serious. Slow. Steady as smoking a cigarette. He plays with his nipples, still sensitive from White sucking the hell out of them. Feels good, but it's nothing to the way White's looking down at him, like he's got his own private porno.  
  
"Come on," Freddy whispers, pulling on his nipple and pushing into White's grip. " _Please_."  
  
A little faster, and that's all he needs. He twists his nipple hard as he comes, breathing hard, feeling the wet drip of it over his stomach. His heel digs into the floor. His head pushes back against White's thigh. Then White's fingers are dragging through the mess on his stomach. At his mouth, slick and salty.  
  
His insides are melted. His brain's gone home for the day. He opens his mouth, looking up at White with dazed eyes as he licks his own come off White's fingers.  
  
Good thing it's dark. His face is on fire. He's never done anything like this in his life.  
  
"Hey," White says, fingers out and patting Freddy damp on the cheek like he's reading his mind. "Don't worry about it. I ain't gonna tell anyone."  
  
Of course not. Everything's cool. White's fingers slide through his hair, and Freddy clumsily gets his dick put away and his jeans done up. He lies there for a little while, catching his breath. Then he closes his eyes and feels himself sink down, warm and tired and feeling just fine.

The next thing he knows, the sun is up. The sound of traffic is drifting in through the windows. Birds are chirping. He can smell coffee, and he really needs to piss. He sits up, groggy, and looks around.  
  
White is in the kitchen, going through the cupboards. He's freshly showered, his hair wet and combed back. He's barefoot in jeans and a white t-shirt. Not a bad look for him. The coffeemaker's dripping. Freddy rubs his eyes, feeling a little hungover. Then he rubs his neck. He's getting too old to comfortably sleep on a couch. He tries to remember if White slept there with him.  
  
"Morning," White says. He takes a half-carton of milk out of the mini-fridge and sniffs it.  
  
Freddy stumbles to his feet and stretches. He looks at the clock. He's due to meet Holdaway in a couple of hours. Shit. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."  
  
White shrugs. "Looked like you need it."  
  
He kind of did. He hasn't slept all the way through the night in a couple of weeks. "Thanks. I should really get going..."  
  
"I'm not sending you out looking like that. Grab a shower."  
  
Freddy considers that and shrugs. The second he catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, he sees the wisdom in the offer. He's a mess. His hair is standing up, and his eyes are still puffy, and he looks like he spent the night in an X-rated movie. The inside of his mouth vouches for it. He gets the hot water started, then squeezes some toothpaste on his finger and brushes his teeth. He takes a leak, then gets in the shower.  
  
He can hear White moving quietly around. Things clunking in the kitchen. Footsteps across the length of the apartment—into the bathroom for a moment, which makes Freddy peer out from behind the curtain with soap in his eyes, but White's already gone. He scrubs himself down as best he can, then dries off and puts on yesterday's clothes.  
  
There's bacon sizzling on the stove when he gets out. There are two cups of coffee waiting on the little formica table. There's also a bowl, a can of shaving cream, a towel, and the straight razor.  
  
"Sit," White says.  
  
Freddy hesitates. Uh-uh, the academy voice in his head is whispering. No fucking way. But the curtains are open, letting in the early morning sunlight, and you don't make a cup of coffee for the guy whose throat you're about to slit.  
  
"Sit down," White says again. Not forceful. Blustery, like maybe he thinks Freddy will laugh at him. "I ain't sending you out there looking like a bum."  
  
So Freddy sits down. He takes a drink of coffee, his shoulders drawing together just a little as White steps behind him with the towel. "Told you I'm old enough to shave."  
  
White rubs Freddy's cheek. "Peach fuzz," he scoffs.  
  
The hot, wet cloth feels good against his face. There's a squirt of shaving cream and then the slick sound of lather between White's palms. It goes on his face warm and smooth. Goosebumps break out down his arms as White leans over him, closely inspecting his work. Then White wipes off his hands and picks up the razor.  
  
"Hey, maybe—" Freddy starts to say, but then the blade is against his throat.  
  
The first kiss of steel is cold. Freddy's breath catches. The razor lingers for a long moment over his jugular. White's hand is firm on his shoulder, and Freddy holds very still. Then the blade slides up in one slow, fluid stroke, and he breathes out.  
  
White smiles down on him and dips the razor into the hot water. Freddy smiles back and then closes eyes, laughing a little. The razor is warmer the second time around. You've got this, he thinks to himself as his head tilts back, coming to rest against White's chest. Everything's cool. Everything is totally under control.


End file.
